


The Deal

by joinedunderprotest



Series: At Storm's End a.k.a. the Uncleverse [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Don't worry Arya takes it up the ass too because of Equality, F/M, Gendry is period-typical nervous about taking it up the ass but that doesn't mean he's not into it, Pegging, Rimming, this is definitely porn but also Arya and Gendry's hearts are horny on main
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2020-05-16 17:26:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19322773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joinedunderprotest/pseuds/joinedunderprotest
Summary: Arya furrows her brow in thought, nodding to herself. “I think we should try fucking each other up the arse.”“What.”-Gendry gets pegged. The author regrets nothing.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I assign credit and blame to my darling woodpecker and to [gennybfromtheblock](https://gennybfromtheblock.tumblr.com/).
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [@arsenicandfinelace](http://arsenicandfinelace.tumblr.com/).

In the grand old Baratheon tradition, Gendry’s problems start when a bunch of whores come to Storm’s End.

They aren’t there for him, obviously. In defiance of Baratheon tradition, the whores come not to see Storm’s End’s lord, but rather to visit its lady.

No, that came out wrong.

Let’s wind back a bit. For the better part of a year now, since they got properly settled in and little Ned was born, Arya has been determined to change The Way Things are Done Around Here. Some of that is simple household things, like planting a weirwood sapling in the godswood (while bitching out Stannis and the Red Woman, which he enjoyed) or bringing Hot Pie all the way from his inn.

But Arya’s Arya, and she wouldn’t be the woman he loves if she was happy with just looking after a household. No, politics are also Done Around Here at Storm’s End, and she’s determined to change them too. She wants to make things better for people, whether that’s by adopting Dornish inheritance laws so little Ned and any other eldest daughter can inherit, or by encouraging the formation of guilds.

For months, she’s had groups of bakers and merchants and soapmakers coming to Storm’s End to meet with Lord Baratheon and Lady Stark, to discuss standards and prices. Gendry personally thinks arguing with them over these things is like pulling teeth, but he knows it’s the right thing to do, giving authority to skilled commoners instead of just highborns. Truth be told, he quite enjoyed arguing with the new Smiths’ Guild over the price of iron.

But Arya doesn’t just care about trades _men_. No, she’s brought in the Guild of Spinsters, and is looking into some sort of union for maidservants. That’s fine, of course.

The whores are another story.

“I don’t see what makes them any different,” she argues when she brings it up one day.

“Really?” he asks, staring at her. “You don’t see _any_ difference between a whore and a tradesman?”

“Whores have something to sell, same as any tradesman. They need safe working conditions and protections, like anyone.”

And he loves his wife – fuck, he loves her so much it hurts – but there’s no arguing with her sometimes. So she invites a bunch of whores, the lowly and the fine, to meet in the receiving quarters of Storm’s End.

“Do I have to be there?” he asks after her announcement.

“What’s the matter, you scared of them?” she asks, with an unsympathetic eyebrow. “Am I supposed to believe not one of your _three_ was paid?”

He laughs a little at that. He sort of enjoys how jealous she still gets that he had other women before her. Not that he’s stupid enough to say that to her face.

“I’m not answering that,” he tells her, probably wisely.

“Fine. Anyways, if it’ll upset your delicate lordly sensibilities then no, you won’t be there, and neither will any men. Just us women talking.”

So he takes the day off, spending a few hours at his forge and a few hours carrying Ned around the grounds, helping her point at things and listening to her babble. It’s nice. But when they all sit down to family dinner, Arya is quiet and thoughtful, as she hasn’t been since she came back to him and they got married. He sends Ned off to bed with her nursemaid, and pulls his chair closer to Arya, putting an arm around her.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, pushing her hair from her eyes. “What’s got you so quiet?”

“Nothing bad,” she reassures him, absently patting his thigh. “Just some things the women said today got me thinking.”

What could a bunch of storm whores say to have Arya so distracted? “Tell me.”

Arya furrows her brow in thought, nodding to herself. “I think we should try fucking each other up the arse.”

“What.”

For a moment, his blood quickens. He’s never had a woman ’round the back before, but he has known men who have, and he’s heard nothing but rave reviews. Thinking of bending Arya over and filling her other hole is—

Then the words really sink in. She didn’t say “fuck _me_ up the arse”. She said “fuck each other”.

“We could be fair about it,” Arya carries on. “Take our turns. We’d just have to decide who fucks first and who gets fucked.”

Gendry blinks. Quite a lot.

“You want to fuck me up the arse?” he asks, gobsmacked.

“Oh, good, so you want to go first?” She’s pretending not to notice the look on his face. She has to be.

“Arya,” he says slowly, “I don’t know if your years in boy’s clothes have done your head in, but I’m just going to remind you, _you don’t actually have a cock._ ”

Arya looks at him properly then, with that face she makes whenever one of her new friends has taught her an exciting trick of the trade. “You can make fake cocks, did you know? And then you put it in this clever little leather harness, and you can wear it and use it like a man with his own tool.”

“I’ll be the first to admit I didn’t know that. You know what else I don’t know?” He takes her face in both hands and speaks as clearly as he can. “Why you’d want to put one of them in your husband’s arsehole.”

“Because you’d like it,” she tells him, like it’s simple as that.

“I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t.”

“No, but you would,” she insists, putting her hands over his own. “Some of the women today were telling me about it.”

“Do these women hate me, by any chance?”

She rolls her eyes. “After our meeting today – which went brilliantly, we got a lot done,” she rambles, and then sees the look on his face, “anyways, we got to talking. I was curious, so I asked if they had any advice, some tricks or games the two of us could try together. Most of the more common ones said all the usual things, but a couple of the really expensive courtesans said there was something else we could try.”

“They were fucking with you, Arya,” he tries to make her understand. Lord Baratheon refused to meet with the whores, so they decided trick his wife into venturing up his bunghole. Gods, she is usually amazing at spotting liars.

“They _weren’t_ ,” she insists. “They said that only a few of their patrons were willing to try it up there, but the ones who did loved it.”

“Listen, I know some men, in each other’s company, like to do those things,” (he’s heard plenty of whispers about his late uncle Renly) “but men who like women don’t enjoy it. Why would they? A man’s arse isn’t the same as a cunny.”

“They’re not that different, though,” Arya argues. She brings one of his hands down between her legs, and in spite of himself, he starts touching her through her breeches. “You know that spot down there that feels, _oh_ , that feels so good when you work it?”

“Yeah, I know it.” He’s stroking that very spot in firm circles, feeling the fine fabric grow warm and damp. He watches as her eyelids flutter closed and she loses herself for a second, clutching his wrist, grinding on his hand. Then she catches herself and her eyes shoot open again.

“Right. Well. It turns out, men have a similar spot that makes them go wild when it’s worked. Only theirs isn’t on the outside. It’s up the back.”

“There is nothing up the back of me!” He can’t in all honesty say that he’s ever checked, but he’s certain anyways.

“Is.”

“Isn’t.”

“Is.”

_“Arya.”_

“Well, let’s make sure, shall we?” Arya suggests, looking pleased with herself.

“How would you- no! You are not going up there.” He shifts back in his chair, sitting firm to protect himself.

“Don’t be such a baby,” Arya tells him, crawling into his lap. “I’m not saying we have to fuck up there right away. We could try something else they mentioned.”

“Oh gods, what is it now?”

“They told me one way to ease into it,” she begins, and at his glare, she corrects herself, “to get a man used to it, is to put in a finger while sucking his cock.”

He pauses. He doesn’t like the thought of a finger up there much more than whatever device she’s planning on making, but fuck if he doesn’t love having Arya suck his cock.

“You know I never mind a bit of pain when we’re fucking.” Understatement. “But I think that would be too much.”

“It doesn’t have to be painful,” she promises. “When you put something up there, you coat it in oil first so it glides in nice and smooth, like how you only fuck me when I’m wet.”

She pushes herself into him at that, thighs tightening. She’s clearly cheating. He’d be angrier about that if it didn’t feel so good.

She kisses him, sliding one hand into his hair and running the other up and down his chest.

“Let me,” she says against his lips. “Let’s just try it. Just one finger, slick and warm, while I suck you off. If you hate it, I’ll never ask again.”

It’s hard to make good decisions with Arya in his lap. If she were sat across the table, he might tell himself that he’s not sending his wife on a fool’s errand up his arse, and that an inch now is all Arya Stark needs to take ten miles later.

But instead, he’s got her bouncing on him, just a little, just enough, and she’s moved from his lips and is licking the hollow of his throat, and gods, there’s no way the embarrassing discomfort of one of her soft little fingers can outweigh the pleasure of her hot, greedy mouth.

“Fine,” he breathes, tilting his head back. “Just once.”

He feels her smile against his neck and she pulls back, pleased, and gets up off him. She’s opening the door and poking her head out before he can even think to reach for her.

“Brella,” she calls, and he hears and then sees a maid appear before her. The girl politely ignores her aroused lord within and focuses on her lady.

“The chicken is a bit dry tonight,” Arya tells her.

“I’m sorry, m’lady, I’ll send to the kitchens to take it away.”

“No, no, that’s not necessary. Just have them send up some olive oil. We can take it from there.”

Fucking hells.

The maid scurries off, and Arya shuts the door and then leans against it, giving Gendry a filthy look.

Gendry gets to his feet. He’ll take this like a man.

Well, not like a man, exactly.

Arya moves towards him. It’s always turned him on, since that first night in Winterfell, how she walks towards him unflinching, so focused, like a prowling she-wolf. She puts a hand on the back of his neck and pulls him down for a kiss, tongues tangling as she walks him backwards to bed.

When his knees hit the edge of the bed, she stops and pulls back. With careful hands, she unlaces his clothes and takes them off, kneeling to remove his boots. When he stands naked, she looks up at him in a way that says she wants him on the bed. He sits, and she gets back up, between his legs, for more kissing. She stays there for a long minute, soft breaths and smacking lips the only sound, until a knock interrupts.

With one last languid kiss, she pulls away, and when she reappears before him, she’s carrying a little glass cruet full of oil. He’s been less terrified to see her wielding a blood-soaked spear.

She places the oil by his feet and goes to kneel, but he stops.

“Take off your clothes,” he asks her. He thinks he’ll need every bit of arousal she can give him.

Maybe she takes pity, because she obeys with a word, peeling it all off, letting his breath quicken and his cock harden as she reveals her breasts, her hips, her thighs to him.

“C’mere,” he says, opening his arms, and she steps into them, kissing him again, allowing him to crush her to him and rub her tits up against his chest.

He sucks her earlobe into his mouth, enjoying her loud gasp.

“It’ll be fine,” she breathes, running a hand up and down his back. “I’ll take care of you. You know I will. I can make you feel so good.”

She can, he knows she can. She does, every single time, so he releases her and lets her kiss her way across his cheek, down his neck, over his chest. He lets her linger over his stomach, sucking wet kisses on those muscles she likes so much, and then she’s where he wants her, running warm hands over his thighs, breathing hot air onto his tip.

He tangles his hand in her hair, stroking the back of her head, and she smiles up at him once, sweet and soft like no one else gets to see her, and then she moves forward, taking him in.

Forget whatever the septons and the priestesses say. Heaven is Arya Stark’s mouth.

He leans back, propping himself up on his other hand, as she sucks, hollowing her cheeks, running her tongue in a zig-zag pattern across his length, her dark head bobbing between his legs.

She pulls back, taking him in her right hand and licking him up and down, rubbing him against her soft cheek. She looks up at him, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the head and letting it rest against her lips.

“Can I?” she asks, voice deep.

He nods. She can do whatever she likes if she’ll just keep sucking him.

“Lie back,” she orders, putting a firm hand on his belly to push him back. He goes.

He stares up at the ceiling, completely vulnerable, as he feels her mouth on him again.

“That’s right, Arry,” he says softly, reaching down to cup her head. He puts his other arm behind his own head, trying to relax. “Just like that.”

He feels an oiled finger at his hole, and tenses up long enough to for Arya to pull back from him.

“Breathe deep,” she says, low and soothing.

He does, inhaling long and slow as he feels the finger breach him, going in to the first knuckle.

He tugs on her hair a bit and nudges her, asking her without words to distract him.

She does, sucking hard, using her free hand to stroke the base, so that he can basically ignore the finger moving in him. It’s not so bad. Doesn’t feel quite right, having something going in the wrong direction, but it doesn’t hurt. He can get through this to satisfy her curiosity.

She hums around him, and as his toes curl, she goes a little deeper, the second knuckle reaching in.

She’s still moving down there as if she’s looking for something. He lifts his head a little so he can see her at his centre, about to tell her that she’s done her best but it hasn’t been much and he’d rather she finish him the proper way with no more mucking about.

Then she finds something.

_Oh._

A sound escapes him, and he shifts his hips, trying to catch it again.

Arya’s eyes meet his, and he sees them crease with delight. She moves there again, and on the outside, he can feel her thumb behind his bollocks, pressing down hard.

_Oh. OH._

“Arya!”

She pulls her mouth off him, still stroking him. Her other hand is doing something he can’t describe. His cock feels as good as ever, but what’s going behind is like nothing he’s ever felt before, a deep, thick pleasure spreading to the rest of him.

He grabs Arya’s head and brings it back down on his cock. He can’t help it. He needs her there. He needs to finish. He finds his hips bucking, chasing that feeling. He’s groaning, loud and furious.

“Oh gods,” he grunts, fucking Arya’s face, her hand. “There. Right there. Don’t stop. Yeah, yeah, yeah. Oh, I’m gonna—”

And something in him _bursts_. He’s throwing his head back and roaring, holding Arya close, stretching as he feels like he’s about to come out of his own fucking skin, and there’s only white behind his eyelids.

For a time, he can’t do anything but lie there, his arms weak, his chest heaving as he sucks in lungfuls of air. He’s distantly aware of Arya letting him slip from her mouth, pulling her hand back, and disappearing, and then of a damp cloth cleaning him off.

Then that feeling retreats and Arya’s lying down next to him. She reaches up to kiss him on the cheek, and he’s strangely grateful for the sweet contact. He wraps his arms around her, pulling her to lie on top of him.

She brings a hand up and runs it across one of his nipples. They’ve never been all that sensitive, but now his whole body twitches at the contact. He knows she’s smug, but who cares? He’d be smug, too, if he had made her feel like this.

“So.”

He struggles to keep his eyes open as she talks. “Hm?”

“I take it we can try fucking each other sometime?” She’s got that innocent tone in her voice that always means she’s talking shit.

She’s tricked him. She’s fucking tricked him.

 _Oh well,_ he tells himself, settling her in his arms. Arya Stark’s tricks have always had a way of working out well for him.

-

She doesn’t actually bring it up again for a while. Sure, she’s smug as hell the next day, torturing him during meetings by tapping her finger to her lips when no one’s looking, but she doesn’t say a word about what they’ve done or what he’s agreed to.

Even when she does the same thing to him again a couple weeks later, and then a few nights after that, both times to his loud, desperate approval, she doesn’t mention collecting on their deal.

She hasn’t forgotten. He knows Arya. There’s no fucking way she’s forgotten. She’s biding her time for some reason, and it makes him nervous.

And a little turned on.

Fine, very turned on.

Still.

He finally breaks one night and brings it up himself, which, he realises much later, was probably her plan all along. That damned wolf.

“So if you’re needing a fake cock to fuck me,” he says, curled up in bed with her, playing with her fingers to distract himself, “where are you gonna get it? I’m not forging you one if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I wasn’t thinking that, actually,” she tells him. “I mean, I did consider it for a minute, but no. I don’t want one made of steel. I’d be too tempted to make Needle jokes, and you’d get angry.”

She has a point.

“What then? What do you make fake cocks out of?”

“Wood, I hear.”

“I don’t know how to work wood, Arya,” he says, concerned. “And I don’t think I want you going to a carpenter and asking for a fake cock to put up the Lord Paramount’s arse.”

“I can make it,” she promises him. “Remember when Davos taught me how to carve?”

He does remember. Arya, by her seventh or eighth month of pregnancy, was too big to practice her water dancing or ride her horse for anything but urgent need, and she’d been bored to tears. Davos, even though he had his duties as Master of Ships, even though he had lands of his own that needed tending, had sat patiently with her and taught her to whittle wolves and stags and even bulls, little things that would keep her hands busy and could be given as gifts to her babe, the babe Gendry _knew_ Davos thought of as his very own grandchild.

Davos would weep tears of blood if he knew how Arya is now proposing to apply those skills.

“I’m no good with leatherworking, though,” she admits, and looks up at him. “You know about that, don’t you?”

He does. A blacksmith has to know about making harnesses and such. Usually for horses and not his own bloody wife, but whatever.

So in the evenings, after Ned’s been put to bed and dinner’s been cleared away, Arya sits and carves her damn cock like a headsman sharpening his ax, and occasionally she gives him some sketches and dimensions for her harness.

If someone had told him years and years ago what married life would be like, he would have pissed himself laughing and then punched them in the mouth.

-

Gendry doesn’t know the exact day he was born. He never thought that was strange as a boy. Plenty of smallfolk don’t know, and orphans especially. It didn’t occur to him that that might bother him until he was nearly a man grown, fleeing through with a loud-mouthed pain in the arse.

Arya had been talking about her family again, about her eighth name day. She’d gotten in such trouble for mouthing off to her septa that her mother had gotten cross and cancelled her name day feast, but her brother Jon had snuck into her room later with berry pies he’d stolen from the kitchen for her.

At that, Hot Pie started rambling about baking pies, but Arya looked over at Gendry and asked when his name day was. When he admitted he didn’t know, she stared at him, stunned, for a bit, and then ran off into the woods, only coming back a couple hours later when she’d caught a rabbit for them to eat. As they roasted it on a spit that night, she informed him that this was his name day from now on. When he pointed out that they still didn’t know what day it was, being in the woods and all, she furiously made one up and ordered him to remember it. He’d fallen asleep that night with a full belly and a smile on his face.

He half-heartedly observed his name days in the years they were apart, with an ale and a half-decent meal in a tavern (and one year with his second woman, though if he ever told Arya that, she’d be pissed).

Now that Arya is back, though, and that they have wee Ned, he loves his name day. Hot Pie makes a large, soft cake in the shape of a bull, and Ned, seated in her doting father’s lap, almost immediately puts her entire face in it. They have a few drinks, Hot Pie sings some jaunty pirate tune horribly off-key, and no one’s around to call Gendry “my lord” even once.

And once they’re on their own, Gendry fixes a wicked smile on his face and chases his wife around the bedroom, enjoying her unguarded laughter almost as much as the thrill of the hunt.

Arya is faster by far than Gendry, but as she tries to escape by running over the mattress, he’s pretty certain she slows down just enough to let him catch her by the waist and pin her down. She’s certainly more accepting of her defeat than usual, throwing her arms around his neck and covering him in eager kisses.

“Tell me what you want,” she pants.

“I want your ankles around your ears,” he tells her, grabbing at her legs to see it done.

But his little minx only wriggles out from under him, scooting backwards on the wide sea of their bed. He lets out a hungry growl and follows her, but she stops him with a foot to his chest.

“You’re allowed to ask for it, you know,” she tells him, tracing circles on his breastbone with her toe.

“All right,” he says, humouring her, grabbing her calf and pressing a kiss to it, “can I have your ankles around your ears, _please?_ ”

“Not that,” she says, with a light kick to his stomach. “When we made our deal, we said we’d do it to each other. Don’t you want to fuck me like that?”

She wants him to take her up the arse. With all the sheer planning that’s gone into her fucking him, he forgot the other part.

“Yes,” he whispers. “I want that a lot.”

“Look in the nightstand.”

Under her watchful eye, he pulls back and goes to the stand next to the bed, pulling open the drawer. Inside he finds a little phial. It’s full of oil. When he turns back to look at her, she’s already pulling off her shirt.

He puts the phial on the bed and undresses, enjoying the naked hunger in her eyes. His wolf would eat him up if she could.

When they’re both bare, he climbs back onto the bed, throwing her clothes over his shoulder and pulling her into a kiss, both of them on their knees and pawing at each other. He squeezes one of her tits, thumbing at the teat, and she rakes lines up his thighs with her nails.

“Turn around.”

She looks up at him, and she’s nervous and excited, like their first time, but she turns around and gets on all fours. He cranes his neck to see her biting her lip, and he leans down to press a kiss to her spine.

“I’m not a master in this like you,” he tells her backbone, and then he places another kiss on the back of her neck and puts his mouth by her ear. “But you know I’d never hurt you, don’t you?”

Arya shifts her weight to reach back and stroke his side as he nuzzles her. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’re my Gendry.”

There are poets who labour their entire lives to pen lines half as beautiful as those words sound to him.

He pulls back and reaches for her, running a thick finger back and forth over her slit and then to the bundle of nerves, listening for the hitch in her breath that means he’s found it. He strokes her, softly at first, then putting more pressure on her as she starts pushing back.

He slides a finger inside her, crooking it, massaging her walls. When she lets a whimper slip out, he adds another, feeling that spongy part in her that makes her back arch.

“This is supposed to be a night for you, you know,” she says, and he knows she’s trying to sound annoyed, but he can hear her smiling. “You should get to it instead of spending your time pleasing me.”

“Don’t argue with me on my name day, woman,” he grumbles, and they both let out a laugh, although hers veers sharply into a moan as he presses harder. She drops down from her hands to her elbows, burying her face in the covers as he speeds up, circling outside and stroking inside, faster and faster until she keens.

When she’s calmed down, she turns her face to look at him.

“You going to do it now?” she asks, eyes half-lidded.

He is, and he starts moving towards her before he realises he has no idea what he’s doing.

“How do I—”

“Slick your fingers,” she tells him, raising one lazy hand to point vaguely to the oil. “Then it’s much the same. One finger, then two, to get me ready, and then you can take it from there.”

He pours oil on his slightly shaking fingers. He wants this badly, but he’s not entirely sure how to make it good for her; the men he’s known who talked about it weren’t much concerned with how their women felt, and she hasn’t even got that thing up the back like he does to bring her pleasure. At least he’s gotten her off once already.

But looking at her like this, with her arse in the air for him, her head on her arms, he hopes he can get her to like it, because he’s pretty fucking sure he’s going to love it.

He brings one slick finger up to her hole, not trying to get inside yet, just pressing circles into it. It relaxes beneath his touch, and he pushes in, hearing Arya sigh.

Fucking hells, she’s tight. She’s got the tightest cunt he’s ever known, and he loves it more than life itself, but this is something else. He’s excited and terrified to think of fucking her here.

He thinks of what she does when she’s doing this. He stops at the first knuckle, letting her get used to it, and then the second. He half expects to find something in the area, but no, like she’s told him, only men have that, so he keeps going to the third knuckle and strokes.

“How does it feel?” he asks, running his other hand up her thigh.

“Weird.”

“Bad?” His chest tightens.

“Just. Weird.” She’s staring ahead of her now, and he wishes he could see her face. “Don’t stop, though.”

He goes for a second finger, and she squeezes them together so he can barely bend them. He carries on with his slow, steady strokes until she loosens, and he earns another sigh and a shift of her hips.

“This still all right for you?”

“It is. Do it now. Put it in.”

He’s not going to argue.

He slowly pulls his fingers out. She didn’t tell him to slick his cock, but he does anyways just to be safe.

He takes hold of her hips, lining himself up so the head of his cock rests at her entrance.

“I love you,” he suddenly feels it important to say.

“I know, Gendry. I love you too. Now fuck me, please.”

He nods, even though she can’t see him, and pushes forward.

Seven. Fucking. _Hells._

Her arse is like a vise, squeezing him hard and holding him in place. He gives his hips a shallow jerk, easing his way in, and another one. He puts one hand on the small of her back, to soothe her and to give him an anchor as he slowly works his way inside, her inner muscles clutching him every inch of the way.

He doesn’t stop until he’s all the way, his balls resting against her, every hair on his body standing on edge. He rubs the curve of her arse, steadying himself as he revels in the feeling of her, and then he pulls back a bit and then back in.

“Oh gods. Oh, Arya.”

“Is it good?” she asks, and she has the nerve to push back on him at the same time.

“You’re so tight,” he groans. “You’re so fucking tight.”

“Don’t stop. I want to feel you moving.”

He’ll not deny her this. He withdraws halfway and then rolls his hips, filling her up again, and his groan is matched with a breathy moan.

“Oh, yeah.” Arya’s head lolls. “Do that again.”

He starts thrusting, slow at first, even as his instincts scream to start pounding. He doesn’t want to hurt her. But Arya pushes herself back up on her hands and starts meeting his thrusts, and she’s making those sounds that drive him crazy.

So Gendry keeps one hard hand on her hip, and takes hold of her shoulder with the other, and when he’s nearly the whole way out of her, with only the head still inside, he _slams_ back in.

_“Fuck.”_

“Oh, yes! Gendry!”

And then he’s lost, more beast than man. He pounds into her, loving the impossible squeeze around his cock, the sound of his balls slapping against her and her wailing and his grunting.

As his thrusts turn into rhythmic, brutal jabs, she starts screaming, and he sees her bring a hand to cover her mouth.

“No,” he snarls, tangling a fist in her hair and pulling her flush against him, snaking an arm around the front of her and holding her by the throat, squeezing just tight enough to make her breath come out strained and her inner muscles tighten even more around him. “I want to hear you.”

He punctuates his words by releasing her throat and thrusting hard, dragging a scream from deep within her.

He does it again and again, slowing down a bit and cutting off her airflow, and then loosening his grip and pounding into her, making her shriek something that might be his name.

He’s losing his mind inside her, but fuck, so is she. Her hands are wandering over her tits, between her legs, back to grip his arse, even up over his own hands to apply more pressure to her throat. She’s meeting him thrust for thrust, and gods, what a sight they must be, a grunting, sweat-soaked, heaving beast.

“Touch yourself,” he orders her, pulling at the hand she’s buried in his hair. She obeys, frantically rubbing herself, plunging fingers into her neglected pussy.

She cries out as she finds a spot within herself at the same moment he thrusts just right. “Don’t stop,” she begs. “Right there. There, there, there, there, _there!”_

She throws her head back and howls, spasming around his cock, and he pushes her face first onto the bed, stretching out over the length of her back to growl in her ear.

“Do you want me to come in your arse?” he demands, sloppily licking the shell of her ear and losing control of his rhythm. “Do you want to see my seed leaking out of your sweet little hole?”

Arya frantically nods, beyond words.

He fucks her hard, making furious noises like a bull in rut, breathing hot air onto her face. With one last surge, he explodes, roaring for all Storm’s End to hear.

He comes back to himself by degrees, his breath ragged, his chest sliding against Arya’s sweat-slick back. When he moves to pull out of her, she protests, hooking her calf around his own.

“Stay.”

“I’m crushing you,” he points out, even though he’d much rather stay where he is.

“Not in a bad way,” she argues, sounding sleepy.

He doesn’t argue, and contentedly presses her into the featherbed for a few minutes more as they calm down.

 Finally, he pulls out of her, and this time she doesn’t argue. He takes a moment to appreciate the sight of his seed leaking out of her stretched-out hole. He lays a kiss on her shoulder and then flops onto his back beside her.

“Well,” he attempts, because he’s sure you’re meant to say something to your wife after you’ve taken her second maidenhood, but he has no idea what it is.

“Did you like your name day gift?” she asks, eyes closed, voice rich with sleep and suggestion.

“Best I’ve had,” he says with a chuckle, reaching over her to drag the edge of the covers back over them.

“Even better than the rabbit?” she jests.

“Even better than the rabbit,” he agrees, curling up with her.

-

“Scrub up,” Arya tells him. That would be a lot easier if she weren’t kneeling behind the bath, with her hands on his bare shoulders and her lips on his neck.

Gendry runs the sea sponge along his chest and arms, but he knows which part of him it is she wants cleaned.

She’s finished her tool. Harness included. Tonight’s the night.

He would say he’s about to shit himself, but he doesn’t want to befoul the area for her.

Oh _gods_.

Arya catches his hand mid-wash and, with a deft flick of her wrist to keep the sleeve of her silk robe out of the water, she brings the hand, sponge and all, between his legs.

“You can do it,” she promises, voice warm and alluring against his ear. He tries to focus on the pleasure of that sound as he cleans himself.

 _This is fine,_ he tells himself. It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s fine.  He’ll just … get fucked. Women do it every day. He’ll be _fine._

He keeps repeating that to himself as he rises from the bath and Arya, much gentler than she normally allows herself to be, towels him off and leads him to the bed.

They lie down together on their sides, inches apart. He’s kissed her a thousand times before, but suddenly it’s difficult to reach out. Unsurprisingly, she does it instead, tangling her fingers in his damp hair and moving to meet his lips.

He kisses her back gratefully, spreading a hand across the small of her back as he takes first her bottom lip, then her top, into his mouth. He runs his tongue across the seam of her lips and she happily lets him in, hitching her leg on his waist and running a hand across his back.

He could stay like this forever, with nothing but Arya’s kisses and her affection, her palm warming him wherever it touches and her soft sighs mingling with his own.

But Arya’s been planning tonight for so long, and he doesn’t want to disappoint her. With a hand he hopes isn’t shaking too visibly, he reaches down and unties her belt, lifting up one edge of her robe and taking a look at her.

Well, fuck.

He expected her naked, save for the harness. Leave it to Arya to surprise him. She’s got it on, still mercifully cock-free, but she’s also done herself up. She’s crisscrossed some sort of black silk ribbon across her body, hiding her teats from his gaze but emphasising the shape of her. He wonders, if he could find the place where the ribbon starts, could he give one sharp tug and see the whole thing fall off her? His fingers twitch with the urge to try.

“Do you like it?” she asks, seductive and playful, but still with that undercurrent of uncertainty she gets every time she discusses how she looks.

Normally, he would fall all over himself to promise she’s the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen – and that’s no lie, she’s fucking stunning – but tonight he just skims a finger over her nipple, watching it stiffen beneath the silk, and then lightly follows the interlocking lines down her chest, across her stomach, stopping to trace the rim of her belly button. Placing his whole hand on her hip, he looks up at her in wonder.

“How are you for me?” he asks in a hushed voice. “What did I ever do to be worthy of you?”

He loves the way her face softens as she leans in for another kiss.

“You had the good sense to get in early,” she whispers, mischief in her eyes, and then she nips at his lower lip.

“Can’t say I’ve often had good timing,” he murmurs against her mouth, “but at least I did the one time it counted.”

She smiles into their kiss, and she nudges at his shoulder as she peels off her robe.

“Turn over now,” she says, getting up on her knees.

His stomach drops, and he goes very still.

“It’s time, then?” he tries to confirm. He can do this. He can.

She shakes her head with that sexy little smirk of hers. “Not yet, not for that. There’s something else I want to do first.”

 _What else_ is _there?_ Gendry wants to know, but rather than ask, he tells himself whatever she wants to do will be fine, and he turns over, propping himself up on his elbows and staring intently at his pillow.

He feels himself being shifted and realises Arya’s putting a pillow under him, propping his arse up.

“That pillow’s going to need washing after,” he observes, just to break the silence, and then promptly decides, too late, that the quiet would have been better.

Arya apparently agrees because she doesn’t say a word, just strokes one his cheeks comfortingly, and then she leans over and kisses him on the shoulder blade. She shifts over him, kissing him on the spine, and then again, a bit lower. She keeps up the trail of deep, wet kisses, going lower and lower, until she gets to the base of his spine without slowing down and he realises what she’s about to do.

“Arya!” He looks over his shoulder at her.

She looks up at him, mouth hovering over the crease of him, both hands palming his arse. “What’s wrong?”

“You can’t,” he struggles for words, “ _do_ that.”

“I can’t?” she asks, staring that stare. He probably should have known better than to tell her she can’t do something, but this is … well, it’s important!

“It’s dirty,” he tries.

“No, it’s not. You cleaned it. I watched you.”

“Still…”

“Still…”

“It’s not something … wives do.”

“What, so if I were a whore, it would be alright?” she snaps, annoyed. He’s not sure if he’s made her jealous or if she’s just offended that he would demean whores like that, but he does not fancy having a pissed off Arya with her face near all his important bits, so he backtracks.

“No, it’s just,” he stammers, “I don’t want to force you to do this for me.”

“I want to,” she assures him. “I think it sounds fun. And they said you’ll love it.”

Not for the first time, he wonders if those courtesans told Arya the truth about the finger thing being good just to trick them both into doing other stuff they’ll both hate, but he just turns back to his pillow, letting her have her way.

Massaging the muscles of his arse, Arya spreads his cheeks, leaning in so that he can feel her hot breath against his entrance. Then he feels the first pass of her tongue.

He shifts, intrigued. Now that wasn’t bad.

“Do that again,” he requests, and he feels her smile against one of his cheeks.

“As my lord commands,” she purrs, and then she starts lapping at him, the hot, wet feel of her tongue pleasing him in a different way from her finger.

He wonders if this is what it feels like for her when he eats her cunt. He recognises the way she paints circles around him with her tongue, traces the sides of him. He’s done that on her a thousand times. It feels good. His breath comes faster and heavier, and he grips his pillow and buries his face in it. He finds himself grinding into the one below his hips as she pokes the tip of her tongue inside and pulls back.

It’s not the frantic need her finger gave him, but there’s none of the little discomfort of it, either. Instead, it’s just pure pleasure, and between that and the way he’s rubbing his cock on the pillow, he could come like this. He could easily come, warm and sweet, if she’d just—

She doesn’t. She must notice he’s on the edge, and the little tease dares to pull away, pressing the pad of her thumb against his opening in a soft circle, and he notices that he’s so relaxed down there that the whole digit nearly slides in.

Right. This is it.

He feels her climb off the bed, and out of the corner of his eye, he can see her going to the chest across the room where she’s hidden her tool (because imagine if someone were to find it) but he doesn’t look straight at her. He’s staring at the headboard instead, as if it holds all the secrets of the world. He does his best to ignore the sounds of her fiddling with her harness, installing her cock. So she can fuck him.

Which is fine.

If he grips his pillow any harder, he’s going to tear it in two.

But he’s fine, obviously.

The bed dips ever so slightly as she crawls back on. She runs a hand up and down his thigh.

“Roll over,” she tells him, voice soft but still full of command. He does. Of course, he’s fine as he is, but he might be even better if he looks in Arya’s eyes while she fucks him. Only it’s not her eyes he finds himself staring at.

There it is. He could have sworn it was so much smaller when she was carving it. Does wood keep growing after it’s cut down? He doesn’t think so, but when she was working on it, it seemed to be no longer than her handspan, and yet in her harness it’s clearly the size of a tree trunk.

“Okay,” he says aloud, even though he didn’t mean to and especially not in that choked tone he uses. “You can, er, you can put it in now.”

He takes another stab at looking into Arya’s eyes, but he feels like the cock is staring at him with an evil eye, so he just fixes his gaze straight up instead. His breath is coming fast, and not in the good way it does in the throes of passion. The bedsheets are also in danger of being ripped apart.

So focused is he on the ceiling that he nearly jumps when Arya suddenly appears in his field of vision, hovering over him on all fours.

“Gendry,” she says, soft and low, “talk to me.”

“Not much to talk about,” he says, voice strained. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Arya frowns. Not like she’s angry. Like she’s worried.

She climbs off him. He doesn’t look at her. He’ll lose his nerve if he does. Still, she takes one of his hands, loosens his fingers from their death grip on the sheets, and pulls him to sit up with her. He stares at his knees.

“You don’t want to do this,” she sighs.

Damn him to all seven hells. He was trying so hard not to disappoint her.

“I do, I do,” he reassures her, reaching out to pat her arm, more awkwardly than normal. “Just a bit nervous, you know.”

“‘Let’s get this over with’ isn’t what you say when you’re a bit nervous,” she points out. “It’s what you say when you’re convinced something’s going to be terrible.”

“Well, I’m sorry I don’t know the right thing to say,” he snaps without meaning to. “I’m not like you, you know. This is a first for me, and I know you were confident as anything our first time together, but I’m not like that.”

Arya stares at him in her “you are such an idiot, why do I love you?” way.

“You think I was confident that night?” she asks, disbelieving. “Gendry, I was fucking terrified.”

He thinks of Arya demanding to know how many girls he’d been with, dragging him into a kiss, pushing him down on the sacks. That’s not really what terror looks like, now is it? “ _You?_ Of what?”

“For starters, the thought of being dead in eight hours,” she points out.

He makes a face. “That’s not the same thing, Arya. I’m talking about being nervous about the actual sex.”

“I wasn’t much better on that front.”

“Really.” It’s not that he thinks she’s lying to make him feel better… No, wait, that’s exactly what he’s thinking.

“Gendry, I have loved you since I was twelve years old,” she explains slowly, taking his hand, toying with his callused thumb. “And the night before we were going to die, I asked you to be my first and only. I was so bloody scared that you wouldn’t want me.”

“That’s insane,” he says softly. “You’re insane. I’ve told you since that I was going to confess my love for you that night.”

“I didn’t know that at the time, did I? For all I knew, you’d laugh at me. Or worse, you’d be polite. Or maybe you’d do it, but you just … wouldn’t care. You’d fuck me, and all I’d be is number four.”

“No, never,” he swears, reaching for her. She stops him.

“But I asked anyways, because it was my last night in the world and for the first time in so long, being afraid was worth it. Of course, it did come back to bite me because it turns out the only thing more frightening than you not caring was you caring. But we’ve already talked about that.”

She tries to laugh that off, but she’s got an air of vulnerability around her, even with her black silk and dark wooden cock. Gods, he loves her.

“I,” he starts, hesitates, tries again, “I am afraid.”

“Tell me what frightens you.”

“That it’ll hurt, mostly,” he confesses, even though Arya’s lived through much worse pain without complaint. But he _is_ afraid of that, and he doesn’t want to lie to her about it. “And that it’ll- That it’ll change things.”

“How?” She raises an eyebrow, but for once it’s not judgemental at all.

“I dunno. This isn’t something men are supposed to _do_ , Arya. What if I do it, and I like it, and things get weird?”

“You think you’ll be less of a man because of this?”

He nods, unable to face her.

“Never.”

She sounds furious. Not at _him_ , exactly. At everything that’s made him think this way.

“The way you fuck has nothing to do with that. You’re a man because you are. And frankly, if tomorrow you put on a dress and asked me to call you Jenny, I still wouldn’t think any less of you. I would still expect you to carry on with your blacksmithing, though, because that’s dead sexy.”

He huffs a laugh, and leans over to kiss her cheek. “Promise?” he asks, pulling back a little.

“Oh, yeah. Gets me wet every time,” she answers, laughing when he pinches her. “And I’ll always think of you as a man. The best man there is, really.”

And doesn’t that just send a warm glow through his chest. It’s a little embarrassing to be married two years and still so infatuated with his wife. It’ll be more embarrassing when they’ve been married fifty years and he’s still much the same.

“All right. You can do it, if you really want to,” he says, scooting back towards the pillows.

“No.”

He freezes.

“No? I tell you, I don’t mind.”

“That’s not enough, Gendry. I won’t do it if you’re just going along with this to make me happy.”

“There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to make you happy, Arya Stark,” he informs her.

She gives him a half smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I know. But it’s not enough.”

“Why not?”

She leans forward, taking his face in her hands, pressing her forehead against his. Her eyes blaze so hot his breath hitches.

“I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again,” she states. “I’m. Not. The Red. Woman.”

“Arya.” He can’t quite breathe.

“I won’t ever do anything you don’t want me to do. Not by tying you down, and not by making you feel like you have to do it for my sake. You liked those other things we did, but this is bigger, and if you’re not certain you want it – want it for yourself, not just to please me – then we won’t. I won’t change my mind on that.”

He could try to persuade her. He wants to make her happy, and with everything she’s told him, he can put up with this easily for that.

He could nod, give in, and call it all off. She won’t blame him, he knows. She’ll put her harness away, and either they’ll fuck the normal way or they’ll hold each other and go to sleep.

He realises neither sounds right. There’s a third option, though, slowly occurring to him.

He thinks of the first time she suggested all this. He thought she was insane. He thought someone was lying to trick his wife into doing unspeakable things to him. And that’s exactly what she did that night.

And he fucking loved it.

It was a bit odd at first, but then it was indescribable. And she’s done it again since, and he’s loved it every time.

And he fucked her in her arse, too. She loved that. She’s made him promise they’ll do it again some night soon. She doesn’t even have that thing he’s got up there that makes him lose his mind, but she was screaming in pleasure. Fuck, maybe it not’s that terrible.

Maybe he really would like this, too, just like she’s been trying to tell him. And there’s a good chance it’ll be awkward and uncomfortable the first time, but that’s what first times are, aren’t they? And with some practice…

His whole body shivers.

“Do it.” He sounds determined. He sounds eager. He is.

“Gendry, I told you—”

“You promised me I’d love it. Starks keep their bloody promises, don’t they?”

She looks at him. She’s confused, but he can see the excitement dawning in her eyes. “Of course we do.”

“Good.”

He falls onto his back and spreads his legs, aware he’s being ridiculous but utterly not caring.

“Fuck it. Go ahead. Deflower me.”

And Arya crawls between his legs, stretching over him to plant a hard kiss on his lips before producing a phial of oil from out of nowhere.

She dips her head back between his legs to lick him again, this time stroking his sack as she does.

“I think you should have your mouth on my balls,” he suggests, patting her head, “and put your fingers in instead.”

Arya’s tongue stills, and she pulls back. “Whatever you want.”

She retreats for a moment, oiling up her fingers, and then she presses one inside. Oh, it’s even better this time because he’s still relaxed from what her tongue did, and she slides right in and finds his spot, and his instinctive groan rises a bit when she chooses that moment to suck his right bollock into her mouth.

There are legions of men who would sneer and mock at Gendry for this. As he stretches out his arms on his great big bed in his great big castle while Arya Stark pleasures him and inserts a second finger, Gendry cannot for the life of him remember why that would be.

“Bit faster with the fingers,” he requests, and she hums in acknowledgement, which sends a thrum deep into his belly, before speeding up a bit and switching to his other bollock.

“Oh, Arya,” he groans. She feels too good. It would be such a waste if he came early after he’s finally gotten himself prepared for this.

Maybe she senses this danger, because she drags her mouth away entirely and sits up on her knees. She watches him carefully. She’s free to look. He strokes his belly a little to draw her eye to his stomach muscles and to his flushed, straining dick.

She clearly likes what she sees. She can’t tear her eyes away, even as she reaches for the oil again and starts slicking up her cock.

She brings herself to his entrance, hands on his thighs, and there’s something so amazing about the sight he cannot look away.

“You want this?” she checks one last time, chest rising and falling.

He leans up to put his hands on her arse, bringing her closer, and they both gasp as she breaches him.

It’s more than her fingers, that’s for sure. He stills, letting her ease her way in with tiny, rocking thrusts, trying to breathe deep as this whole new feeling washes over him. When Arya pauses for a second, looking him over in concern, he nudges her forward again. He wants the whole thing in him before he reassesses.

He groans when he feels her bottom out, her hips against his arse, the leather of her harness between them. This … this isn’t painful, really. It feels odd, having her moving up in him, like the first time with the finger, only more… Just, just _more._

But he’s not in pain, and he doesn’t feel like any less of a man with a beautiful woman kneeling between his legs, leaning forward for a kiss he eagerly grants her.

He gasps into her mouth as she starts to rock inside him, and she smiles and grips him by the back of the neck, leveraging him to push in deeper. She reaches for his thigh with her free hand, and her angle changes as her cock starts brushing up against that spot in him.

His head falls back, and a loud moan falls from his lips. “Oh, Arya, right there. Don’t stop.”

His encouragement pleases her and she speeds up. “Yeah? You like that?”

He holds up one hand in front of her face, and Arya, knowing what he needs, doesn’t hesitate to lick his palm.

“Yeah, I like it.” If the sounds he’s making aren’t proof enough, then him reaching down to his dick surely is. He gives himself a squeeze and runs his thumb over the head, pressing briefly into the slit, and then starts stroking in time to Arya’s thrusts.

The warm, familiar pleasure of his cock, the heady new feeling in his arse, the sound of Arya slapping against his hips, the smell of sex in the air, it’s all making him so turned on he can barely breathe. His dick is nearly swollen purple, and as he starts leaking, Arya reaches one finger out to swipe the pearly fluid from him and paint it across her tits, staining her silk.

With a growl, he reaches for that silk, finally pulling it out of the way, baring her teats to him, and he draws one into his mouth, sucking greedily, pinching the other one as she arches into him.

“So hungry for me,” Arya murmurs, pounding relentlessly. “You want to come, is that it? You want to come for me?”

His eyes falls shut and he nods, still sucking at her.

“Go ahead, then. You’ve been so good for me,” she praises, and his hand speeds up around his cock. “Come for me, my good boy.”

“Harder,” he begs, pulling back to look at her. “Fuck me hard so I can come.”

Her breath hitches and her hands tighten on his thighs for a second, and then she pushes him on his back and grabs him under his knees, slamming into him, grunting with the exertion. With one last look at his snarling she-wolf, Gendry throws his head back and shouts loud enough to rattle the windows, painting streaks of come across his chest.

With jerky, adrenaline-filled movements, he grabs a pillow and drags it over his own face, screaming into it a few more times as thrills of pleasure rip through him. When they die down, he feels Arya slowly pull out of him, and he misses the feel of her inside him.

He lets the pillow drop when he hears familiar moaning, and he looks up to see Arya, harness discarded, touching herself, eyes intent on him. He reaches for her free hand and holds it in his as she gets herself off in record time, hips bucking, coming around his bitten-off name.

She throws herself onto her back next to him, hands still joined. For a moment, they’re silent, staring up at the ceiling together.

And then, slowly, the giggles start. Hers and his, mounting as reality hits them, until they’re rolling around red-faced.

“You fucked me,” he wheezes.

“And you loved it!” she counters, wiping tears from her eyes with her fingers still covered in drying oil and her juices.

“I did!” he agrees, his stomach starting to hurt and his arse starting to ache. “I really, really did.”

“The whores were right!” she shrieks, and she nearly falls off the bed.

“Remind me to send a nice gift to their new Guild Hall,” he decides, pulling her back from the edge to wrap himself around her, chuckling into her shoulder.

She peers into his eyes as their laughter dies down. “You’re really all right? I didn’t hurt you?”

“Of course you didn’t,” he says, nestling into the crook of her neck. “You’re my Arya.”

“And you’re my man.”

“And we’ll be doing this again, right?”

“Try and stop me.”

Gods bless those fancy whores, he decides, holding Arya close. They have nothing but good ideas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, you saw the tags and you clicked on the link. I don't know what you were expecting.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas, ya filthy animals.

It begins with a lovely family excursion. Technically, it ends with one, too.

It’s the middle section that’s a bit dodgy.

It actually starts with the first proper trip they’ve ever taken as a family. Gendry and Arya have both had to leave Storm’s End at times, separately or together, to deal with bannermen and common folk across the Stormlands in person. Those journeys are always kept as short as can be, with the eager parents wanting to get home to their babies.

It’s not that Gendry can’t _handle_ being away from his family. He just doesn’t want to, all right? Fuck you, he can do as he likes. And he likes being home with his wife and their two gorgeous children. Everywhere else is terrible in comparison.

But if there’s anywhere that’s slightly less terrible, it’s the Rainwood, where Ser Davos lives. And with the new year coming up, he encouraged Gendry and Arya to skip the usual festivities at Storm’s End, bring Ned and little baby Davos, and come celebrate the holiday quietly in his castle. He adores Gendry’s children, and they adore their self-appointed grandfather in return.

And since the sly old smuggler made the suggestion in front of Ned, she immediately agreed on her entire family’s behalf. When Arya had pointed out that little Davos was barely a year old and travelling might be difficult for him, Ned had informed her that he was _her_ baby brother and she just _knew_ that he wanted to go to the Rainwood, more than anything in the whole wide world.

(Ned may have his look, but at she’s bossier at three and a half than her mother was at thirteen. Gendry loves her desperately.)

So it’s off to Ivy Hall, with chests of clothes and gifts and a squalling baby who falls silent the moment his big sister orders him to stop crying.

(They have no idea how she does that, but thank the gods she can.)

It’s a gorgeous castle. The stones are old and in places look likely to crumble the moment a strong gust of wind hits them, but Gendry has lived in the Stormlands long enough to know most of them have looked like that for hundreds of years and will keep on looking like that for hundreds of years more.

It’s obvious where the keep gets its name, as a solid wall of vines covers the entire southern half, so that the castle almost disappears in the deep forest behind it. Ned claps at the sight of it, and little Davos babbles and reaches out when Arya holds him up to take a look.

Ser Davos is there to greet them when their carriage pulls up. He coos over his namesake when the babe’s handed to him, and he tucks him in one arm while he offers his other hand to Ned and leads them all into the castle.

After that it’s a whirlwind, really.

The new year isn’t for a few more days, but Davos has prepared a little feast for them tonight anyways, mainly made up of sweetbreads and puddings to please the children because “I’m their grandfather and that means I get to spoil them rotten. It’s up to the two of _you_ to worry about their health.”

Ned agrees. Loudly.

She stuffs her face at dinner, and the rare treats combined with her first journey away from Storm’s End mean she’s far too giddy to use her special powers to calm down her screaming brother. Afterward she runs around the solar, eager to recite all her letters for Davos and show off her clumsy somersaults and sing an Yi-Tish song Lao Bao’s second son Lao Mian taught her. And Davos is delighted and eggs her on, rapt as she counts to ten, even without her fingers, all while little Davos crawls on the carpet and occasionally wails for attention.

It’s– It’s a lot.

Gendry loves his children. And Arya loves them. They’d both do anything for them, anything you could think of. They’re the best thing either of them’s ever done, and that includes saving the world.

Still. They’re a lot.

And Davos notices. So after they’ve lulled little Davos to sleep and put Ned to bed, Davos sits them down by the fire with some spiced wine and an understanding look.

“Wearing you down, are they?” he asks knowingly.

Arya bristles at that. Well, she tries to bristle, because she hates people suggesting she does not have infinite energy, but she’s tucked her head into Gendry’s shoulder and is clearly too comfortable there to get up and argue.

“We love them,” Gendry says in their defence.

“Oh, I don’t doubt that for a second,” Davos promised. “It’s plain as day. Those two are getting such care and love out of you, even as you do such a fine job running this place. “I’m proud of you, I really am.”

Gendry smiles into his wine at that, reddening, and Arya strokes his knee. She knows what it means to him to hear those things from Davos, the only father he’s ever known.

“But,” Davos continues, “there’s not a parent alive who’s never gotten tired. When– when Mathos was a babe, I was often off on one of my voyages, and my dear Marya would often take the little lad to her mother’s so she could rest. When did you two last take some time for yourselves?”

“We do that all the time,” Arya mumble-argues.

“I’m not talking about a couple of hours in the evenings. I mean a few days just for you, no governing, no children.”

“We can’t just abandon our children,” Gendry insists. Robert might have been happy to run around oblivious to his sixteen bastards – and his three legal children for that matter – but there’s no way in any hell Gendry will ever do the same.

Davos chuckles. “Taking a little break isn’t abandoning them. Look, I have a little hunting lodge a few hours’ ride from here. How about in the morning, the two of you set out for it? You’ll get some time to yourselves, and I’ll be here with my best girl and my little man. Everyone’s happy!”

Arya lifts her head a couple inches off Gendry’s shoulder to look up at him, thoughtful. He considers it as well.

Him and Arya, in a lonely little lodge, getting some peace and quiet. It sounds heavenly.

He nods, and she nods, and they turn back to Davos.

“We’d love that, Ser Davos,” Arya says. “Thank you.”

Davos claps his hands together, satisfied. “Wonderful. I think it’ll be good for you to spend some time just the two of you.”

“Hang on.” Gendry’s eyes narrow. “Are you just doing this so we’ll go off and make you another grandchild?”

Davos’s eyes go wide and round, the very picture of innocence, and Gendry knows he’s about to unload some horseshit. “Me? I have no stake in this at all. I just want you both rested.”

Arya flashes Gendry her _That was a lie_ look – not that Gendry needs it in this case. Neither of them argue, though.

A few days holed up in the middle of nowhere, fucking Arya again and again, putting another baby in her belly…

Suddenly it’s all he wants.

So in the morning, they carefully explain to Ned that she and her brother will spend a few days at Ivy Hall just with their grandfather. She takes it in stride, letting them go with a dozen kisses and a reminder to stay warm on their ride. Ser Davos waves them off with little Davos in his arms blowing spit bubbles.

It doesn’t take long to reach the lodge, a small stone house nestled in the fold of a green hill. They bring in the bundles of food and clothing Arya insisted on packing herself (though he has no idea why she thinks they’ll be wearing clothes). They drop them on the ground and look around.

“Very nice,” she says.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Cosy.”

“Snug.”

“Though it won’t be the same without the little ones,” he says, because it ought to be said.

“I hope they’ll be all right without us.”

“I don’t know what _we’ll_ do without _them_ ,” he adds.

They face each other, silent and still for a long moment.

Then they pounce.

What follows is two straights days of fucking. In bed, on the floor, against the wall, over the table. In the house, beneath the sky. Fast and filthy, slow and steady.

Davos said they should relax. Gendry happens to find sex with Arya _very_ relaxing, thanks.

Which is how, on the eve of the new year, Gendry and Arya find themselves stretched out on a bearskin rug in front of a roaring fire, with no greater concerns than Gendry seeking out that sweet sound Arya makes when he traces the shell of her ear with his tongue and sucks her earlobe into his mouth.

“ _Gendry_ ,” she sighs, bringing a hand up to tangle in his hair, and he tells himself for the thousandth time that he’s the luckiest man there ever was.

She’s wearing his shirt – just to be cruel, he thinks – but he pushes it up, over her hips, past her waist, until it’s bunched up around her collarbone. He traces the curve of her breast with the tips of his fingers, making her push herself into his hand. When he moves his fingers, lightning quick, to pinch her stiffened nipple, she gasps and the hand in his hair tightens. He smiles against her ear; she’s so sensitive today, no matter how many times he makes her come.

“It’s not nice to tease,” she chides, wrapping her leg around his hip, trying to pull him into her.

“Who’s teasing?” he asks, trying to keep a straight face. He doesn’t have to try for long. A second later, he’s dipping his head down to suck that same nipple, enjoying the hot flesh under his tongue and the way she holds him close to her.

“You’re trying to drive me mad,” she accuses breathily.

He doesn’t argue. That’s exactly what he’s trying to do, and he loves how well it’s working. He puts a hand on her back, trying to draw her in closer. He loves being surrounded by her when they fuck, so he can forget there’s a world beyond Arya’s bare skin.

But the instant he moves to shift her, she beats him to it, her hand shooting up to push him onto his back and hover over him. The peak of her breast slips out of his mouth as he rolls backward, and he tries to lean up and capture it between his teeth, but she puts both her hands on his shoulders, holding him down. She locks eyes with him, giving him the insolent, imperious look that always promises she’s going to ride him till he’s dust.

“You seem to think you’re in charge here,” she observes, sliding one hand down his chest to stroke his stomach before pressing down, enough to make the muscles there tighten.

“Who’s in charge, then?” he asks, his breathing quickening. He wants to hear her say it.

She raises a haughty eyebrow at him.

“I am,” she announces, lowering herself until his cock is nestled between her wet cunt lips. He wants to buck up against her, but that’s not the game. She brings her other hand to his stomach, too, and she uses him for leverage, sliding over his cock, the friction perfect but not enough, never enough. He watches her grind on him for a few minutes, intent, tossing her head back as she gets lot in the feeling, and he’d give anything to be inside her, but he’s not allowed to ask for that.

Yet.

He’s not even allowed to touch her. He bunches his hands in the thick fur of the bearskin, fists clenching with the effort not palm her tits, to wet his thumb and rub tight circles between her legs.

“ _Gendry_ ,” she sighs again. He’s not even doing anything, but the way his cock feels under her earns him that, and he’d sell his soul to hear what she’ll call out when he’s inside her.

“Arya,” he says, writhing with the effort not to grab onto her. She’s glowing in the firelight, too hot to resist. “Arya, you’re so pretty on top of me. You look so good like this. You always look so good like this. Gods, you can’t imagine what it’s like seeing you like this.”

Her breathing speeds up and so do her hips. “You want to see me ride you, is that it, Gendry? You want to see me bouncing on your cock?”

“Yes,” he pants, fists shaking with the effort not to seize her.

“You think I’m pretty when I ride you?”

“ _So_ pretty.” He nods eagerly and draws in a shaky breath when she smiles so all her gleaming white teeth show.

“All right, then.”

She lifts her hips and takes hold of his cock. Breath hitching, she sits on it, eyes fluttering shut for a moment at the stretch of him. He groans as he’s surrounded by her, wet and tight and _his_. He finally lets go of the rug, wrapping his hands around her hips, squeezing so hard he’s sure to leave bruises, the way she likes. He just needs to have his hands on her; he does nothing to control her movements as she slowly starts to rise and fall on him.

“Look at me,” she orders.

He does, taking in the fine sheen of sweat covering her, the way she bites her lip, her tits bouncing as she speeds up.

So good, she’s so good.

She pulls his hand from her hip and brings it up to her mouth, sucking on his thumb, hollowing her cheeks around him. The sight of it is so stirring he almost forgets it’s not his cock she’s sucking, only his thumb she’s laving with her tongue as she rides him.

She releases it with a pop, then brings the hand back down to where her hips are rolling against him.

“Make me come.”

He sets to work eagerly, pressing down hard on her bud, earning him a jerk of her hips. With his other hand he drags her down his length, filling her deep and forcing a strained cry from her lips.

“Right there!” she calls out, gritting her teeth against the pleasure threatening to overtake her. She slams her hips against him over and over while he frantically rubs her bundle of nerves, the rising pitch of her moans promising him he’s doing it just right, that she’s close, so close. His hips buck against her, and he’s about to finish too, but she wants to come first and he wants to do that for her.

She’s biting her lip and screwing her face up tight as she writhes wildly on him, chasing her pleasure that’s only seconds away, and he struggles to keep up the rhythm of his thumb even as he just wants to lie back and watch the sight of his beautiful, his perfect wife fucking herself on top of him, as incredible now as she was that first night. He whispers that and she nods frantically, wanting more, so he tells her how he felt the first time, watching her bouncing on top of him, knowing he’d only love her for the rest of his life, treasuring the feeling of her tight little cunt wrapped around his cock, and––

“Ah!”

The cry punches out of her and her eyes shoot open as her nails dig into his sides, hard enough to leave marks he’ll be proud of. She whimpers as the shocks hit her, and he strokes her thighs as she comes back down to earth, panting and shaking.

Finally, her breath steadies and her eyes focus once more. Gendry’s lips curl into a smile as he reaches for her hips to start lifting her up and down his cock again, but she raises herself up off him, much to his alarm.

“What? No, come on, I need you.”

But Arya’s merciless, leaning for a quick kiss and then murmuring against his lips, “Wait here.”

She stands up and steps over him, rushing off before he can even say a word. He falls back onto the rug with a groan, reaching for his cock.

“And don’t touch yourself!”

He loves that woman. He _does_. He reminds himself of it as his cock begs for attention, as he bunches his fists in the bearskin yet again. The patter of returning footsteps makes his head snap up.

Arya’s grinning, holding up a little phial and…

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“You brought. The harness.”

“Of course I did.”

He rolls his eyes, even as he parts his legs so she can kneel between them. She pulls him up for a kiss. And a few more.

“No wonder you had to be the one to pack everything,” he mumbles.

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” she tells him, wrapping her arms around his neck. The leather straps skim his back.

“Someday, I swear, I’m going to stop being surprised by the things you do,” he warns, reaching for the small of her back.

“Then I’ll just have to work even harder to be surprising,” she threatens adorably.

“Gods, when that day comes, I’m fucked.” He realises, after a moment, what he’s just said and hangs his head, mortified. She laughs and pecks him on the cheek.

“Can I?” she asks, finding his eyes. “I want to. Can I?”

“If you must,” he grumbles, pretending he’s not smiling and leaning back on his hands to give her access.

“Oh, I must,” she agrees, coating her fingers in oil. She gives him a few slick pumps and oh, _that’s_ nice. Then she reaches down to trace his rim. He’s taken her fingers plenty of times, but there’s always a moment of nerves when she first breaches him, and now she distracts him with a sweet kiss as she dips her finger inside.

He lets out a breath as she rubs him, exploring carefully. She’s always gentle when she does this, stroking slowly until he goes pliant under her, letting her in. His head falls back as she finds that spot, the one that sends warm waves and burning sparks through him. The thought of Arya inside him doesn’t faze him these days. That’s how it should be; they’re a part of each other.

“More, Arry,” he bids quietly. “Another.”

She nods, laying kisses up and down his neck as she adds a second slick finger. He moves against her, wanting her deeper. She gives it to him, stroking the spot as his hips begin to shift against her and his breaths come faster.

She adds another. He grips her shoulder, squirming.

“I’m– I’m gonna– Put your bloody harness on already.”

He groans when she withdraws her fingers and stands to step into her harness, grinning all the while.

Gendry loves his mad little wife.

He lays back, knees bent and spread, expecting her to crawl back between them, but all he gets is, “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Hm?” he cracks an eye open.

“Not like that.”

“Oh, sure.” He moves to roll over onto his hands and knees, but she reaches out a foot to stop him.

“Still no.”

“Then what?” he asks, throwing up his hands.

She takes to the floor, lying down and spreading out beside him.

“Remember what you were saying?” she asks, sliding her fingers into his hair and bringing his face to hers. She smells like sex.

“I can’t even remember my own name.”

“You _said_ ,” she goes on, “I looked so good riding you. You said you loved seeing me like that.”

 _Oh_.

Well, there’s an idea.

“You want me to ride you?” he questions.

Just the thought is enough to make her shiver. “Can you?”

 _Maybe?_ he thinks to himself. He’s never tried before, and he has the vague notion that it’s more difficult. Sure, Arya did it her first time ever, but, well … that’s Arya.

His mind’s eye flashes back to that night yet again, to the beautiful girl he could barely believe he was allowed to _want_ , let alone have, tossing her hair over her shoulder and straddling him. _Gods._ If seeing him like that would do the same thing for her, he wants to give her that.

He nods.

She lights up, surging forward in a kiss, seizing him by the shoulders and rolling him on top of her. He resists the instinct to part her legs and crawl in between them. Instead he puts his knees either side of her hips and sits up.

He’s got a nice view at least.

Arya lies on her back, eyes bright with excitement, making no move to guide him.

“Do I just––?” he asks, suddenly forgetting everything he’s ever known about how sex works.

“If you like,” she promises. “Take your time. I just want to watch you enjoy yourself.”

Beyond the new, foreign pleasures it brings, what Gendry loves about doing this is how tender Arya becomes during. He loves his razor-witted she-wolf, of course, but there’s something precious about the way she gets when she wants to show him how she cares for him. Her gentle tone gives him the courage to reach down and position her wooden cock at his entrance, take a deep breath, and sit on it.

He breathes through the first couple inches, rises up slightly, and sits again, lower this time, feeling the delicious stretch in his arse. He takes it slowly, just small thrusts, and twitches when he finds that spot. Breath catching, he leans forward and plants his hands either side of Arya, breath hitching as he moves against the spot again until his spine tingles.

His breath hitches when Arya’s soft hand wraps around his cock and pulls. She traces a slick finger over the slit, and the sharp pleasure there and in the back makes him stop breathing entirely.

“You were right,” she whispers in his silence. “You’re beautiful like this.”

He feels a soft smile break out on his face. She tugs him down for a kiss, sighing into his mouth, stroking his cheek with her thumb. He bites her lip once, making her nearly growl, then sits back up, never daring to break his rhythm, to interrupt the feeling tightening in his belly.

“So good,” he pants. _So fucking good._

He takes it all in, grinding against Arya’s hips, jerking up into her hand. It’s too much, it’s too, too much, and he’s about to crawl out of his fucking skin from the pleasure, he’s going to–

He groans, long and deep, as his release hits him, the feeling washing over him. He comes in stripes across Arya’s chest and stomach, his seed and her sweaty tits shining by the fire’s low light. She makes no secret of admiring him in turn.

Arya’s the one to break the silence.

“You’ll be doing that again,” she informs him with one of her wolf smiles.

“Oh, I will, will I?” he asks, letting her tool slide out of his arse. He climbs off her, moving to her side. “Not – fuck – not for a little while at least.”

Arya disappears, and returns with a wet rag and no harness, cleaning him up.

“Not until you’re ready for it,” she promises, then meets his eye. “Any chance that’ll be soon, though? Maybe before we go home.”

Gendry laughs at the thought, throwing an arm over his eyes. “Gods, no, Arya, we can’t do that at Ivy Hall. Davos would never forgive us.”

“I wasn’t proposing to let him know,” Arya chuckles, putting aside the washcloth and crawling into his arms.

“ _I’d_ know,” he reminds her, tucking her head under his chin, “and I’d never manage to look him in the eye again.”

“What, you don’t think he’d like to know his son by choice likes taking it up the arse?”

He shrugs. “I don’t think it’d be the taking it itself that would upset him.”

“No?”

“He’d probably just hate that when we do it like that I don’t finish inside you.” He nudges her. “Not much chance of another baby that way.”

“Really?” She tilts her head up at him. “You think all he cares about is me getting with child again?”

“Pretty much, yeah.” He tucks a lock of hair behind her ear.

“Oh, good. Then he has nothing to worry about.”

_What?_

He just stares at her for a moment, not getting it, until a smile creeps across her face.

He starts doing some frantic sums. Is she teasing? She can’t be teasing him.

Can she?

“Arya.”

She giggles, she actually giggles.

Hope springs.

“But I thought you were taking your moon tea?” he questions.

“That’s what I said!” She pokes him low on his hip. “Stupid seed.”

He kisses her urgently, squeezing her tight by reflex and then loosening his grip and directing an apology to her stomach. He offers her gentler kisses instead, and she takes them all.

“When did you know?” he asks, pulling back, pressing his forehead to hers.

“About a week ago.”

“A week?” he repeats in disbelief. “You been keeping quiet about a new baby for a whole week?”

“I wanted to wait until now.”

Arya glances over his shoulder. He follows her gaze out the window, spotting the first light of dawn on the horizon.

He turns back to face her. She’s so lovely when she’s pregnant.

“Happy new year, Gendry.”

He thinks of what this year will bring them. And the next year, and the one after that.

“Happy new year, Arya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still not sorry.


End file.
